


measured steps to something better

by Archaeopteryx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: (if you want to read it that way), Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Touch-Starved, Touching, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 14:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12322995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archaeopteryx/pseuds/Archaeopteryx
Summary: Fenris has a complicated relationship with interpersonal touch.With someone he trusts, who respects his boundaries, it's not so bad.(brief mention of alcoholism)





	measured steps to something better

The sun baked Hightown’s stonework, radiant heat making the warm summer day almost comfortable for Fenris. The breeze of the past few days had shifted, blowing cool, fresh air off Sundermount rather than the humid, sewage-stinking miasma that normally swept up from Lowtown. A few clouds spotted the sky, providing occasional relief from the glare. It might rain that night, but the possibility was far-off.

In short, it was much too nice out for Fenris to be twitchy and aching, plagued by shadows at the edge of his vision; but his memories had never been considerate with their timing.

Hawke showed up outside the mansion with their uncanny knack for guessing when Fenris was having a bad day. After few minutes of wary indecision, he went out to meet them. “I was around,” they said, shrugging at the question Fenris hadn't asked. “Wanna go for a walk?”

As much as Fenris was ready to barricade himself in the cellar and drink until he couldn't see straight, let alone think, he liked the idea of getting some sun. So he shrugged, strapped his greatsword to his back, and set out into the street with his shoulders squared as if every cobblestone and city sparrow were an enemy.

He took the lead without a word. Hawke fell into step a little behind him, an armspan to his right. Neither of them spoke, but Fenris guessed Hawke had half expected this: they didn't really “walk” so much as “patrol”, circling in an expanding perimeter around the mansion.

The heat loosened his shoulders and back, easing the ache of the lyrium under his skin. The light burned the shadows out of his peripheral vision. As he found his rhythm, his stride lengthened, stretching into something fluid and predatory, a pace he knew he could keep for hours if he had to. When he glanced aside, Hawke had the same pace: heavier, more like a piece of moving stonework themself, but still the kind of stride that scattered passersby like pigeons. They glared viciously at the human nobles giving Fenris dirty looks over their shoulders. Not that he cared — but it lit an odd kind of warmth in his chest that Hawke did.

His nerves steadied; his anxiety eased. Movement, warmth, light — things that made sense, that were reliably safe. Less certain, but — he thought — still reassuring, Hawke's stocky weight at his side. His bare feet gripped the pavement; the sun beat down overhead. He slowed his pace, allowing Hawke to walk beside him. “So,” he said, “what brings you to my part of Hightown?”

Hawke flashed a grin and launched into a long story, involving an increasingly elaborate string of errands run for Varric and Isabela — with the amount of time Hawke spent around the Hanged Man, Fenris sometimes wondered why they had bothered to move up to Hightown at all. He listened with half an ear, prompting when it seemed appropriate. He didn't have the concentration to make sense of the story, but Hawke's chatter kept his mind in the present and his nerves at ease.

As they left the market square and swung back out into the less-populated side streets, Hawke reached for his hand.

Fenris recoiled even before the stab of pain registered, springing aside to put his back against a wall. Hawke startled, staring at him with a worried frown. The sun overpowered any other light, but he knew his lyrium glowed, burning white-hot under his skin. His heart thudded loud in his ears.

Hawke made no move. They blinked at Fenris, opened their mouth, then glanced down at their own hand and blanched.

“Maker I'm so sorry,” they said quickly. They drew back, raising their hands. “I wasn't thinking. Are you alright?”

Slowly, the gears of Fenris’s mind caught up to the present. “I'm — fine,” he said stiffly. He dropped out of his defensive crouch, but did nothing to suppress the lyrium glow. Just in case.

“Oh. Uh, good.” Hawke grinned — sheepish, placating. It didn't fit their face. “I — I didn't mean to scare you. I'm really sorry.”

Fenris bristled — scared? He didn't do “scared”. Startled, hostile, wary, yes: not scared. But Hawke was sincere enough, so he shoved down the urge to snap and asked, “Why?”

Hawke blinked at him, cocking their head like their namesake. “Because … you're my friend? And I don't want you to be scared? And, I know you don't like touching, but I wasn't thinking and I did anyway.”

‘Friend’.

Huh.

He filed that thought away for later. For now, he shrugged. With the sun's warmth on his back, the movement barely hurt. “It's fine.”

Hawke frowned, but nodded, looking away down the street. “Shall we keep going?”

“Let's.”

***

“Fenris!”

Stupid, he thought, crumpling around the knife under his ribs.

Fenris the lone wolf was untouchable, capable of carving through anyone that approached him. Fenris the pack-hunter, though — wasn't used to having others at his side; wasn't used to sorting friend from foe in battle. It took attention he wasn't used to expending, and it had given one of their opponents an opening to exploit.

His lyrium flared, trying to phase away from the danger. He grit his teeth and forced himself solid, and nearly whited out from the pain: the blade slipped through his half-material flesh, widening the hole it made.

Get up, he thought. The concept didn’t seem to reach his body.

Shadow flickered above him — Hawke, bellowing curses at the top of their lungs as they hurled spell after spell at the raiders.

“ _— hurt him you bastards I’ll —_ ”

Pain and the effort of holding himself solid blotted out the rest.

The next thing he heard was Hawke, again, their voice low and fast. Nothing in the background but wind — the fight was over. “Hold still, okay? You're going to be fine. Can I heal you?”

“What?” Fenris managed to wheeze. There was an ugly rattle in his voice.

“Healing magic, can I? It'll be faster, safer — ”

“Do it,” he snapped, as best he could.

“Right.” Hawke took a deep breath. “I'm going to pull the knife out, one — ”

Hand on his side, the blade yanked out smoothly before he could tense, the hot sting of healing magic knitting the hole in his chest. Pain gone, nothing more than an ache and a stubborn refusal of his lungs to fill completely.

“Better?” Hawke asked anxiously, offering their hand. Fenris considered, then accepted it, letting Hawke help him to his feet.

“I've been worse,” he said dryly. His mind caught up with his nerves, and he jerked his hand away, Hawke's magic buzzing against his skin. “ … Thank you,” he said, formal through the nervous haze. “That would have ended poorly without your aid.”

Hawke smiled at him. “What are friends for?”

“Aww,” cooed Isabela behind them.

“Shut up,” Hawke protested over their shoulder, not missing a beat. Fenris would have twitched, but Isabela laughed; Hawke groaned fondly. All as normal, apparently. “Is everyone else alright? Oh good — ”

They turned away. Fenris flexed his fingers thoughtfully, mindful of the leftover tingle of magic in his chest. It sent echoes twitching uncomfortably down his spine — stupid, to have taken such an injury; stupid, to have needed healing at all. Alone he would never have let his guard slip.

Then again, alone, he would never have had healing close at hand, or a friend to guard him when he fell. And Hawke had asked. That took the edge off the sting, of the dark memories creeping around his throat. Not that it had been much of a choice, but Hawke had asked; however desperate they had been to protect him from the raiders, they had stopped to ask.

***

The tables at the Hanged Man had not been meant to accommodate a group of eight — seven, with Hawke's brother in the Wardens — but they made do. Preferences and social dynamics forced a specific set of seating arrangements: Fenris and Merrill on the outsides; Aveline and Anders by the wall; and Hawke and Isabela in between, while Varric pulled up a stool to the table’s end. They switched sides occasionally, but the bench positions remained constant. After a bit of trial and error, not to mention excruciatingly awkward conversations and outright fights, the arrangement had been tacitly agreed upon as the best.

Which meant that sometimes Hawke sat next to Fenris on Wicked Grace nights.

Hawke’s thigh pressed up against his — there was no way to avoid it, in the cramped space, but Fenris found he didn't mind. Hawke didn't even seem to notice, most of the time, and their nonchalance put Fenris at ease. They were solid, warm, and when they laughed he could feel their voice through that point of contact. The amber lamplight softened everything to a warm, milky haze, sapping the tension from Fenris’s spine.

At some point, Hawke tensed, freezing in the midst of a chuckle at one of Varric’s yarns. Fenris turned his head, alert; Hawke stared down at the bench, at the place where their legs pressed together.

“It's fine,” said Fenris quietly. Hawke swallowed.

“You sure?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. Hawke relaxed, smiling. 

“Alright,” they murmured.


End file.
